


Ciaphas Cain: Hero of the Commonwealth!

by XenoWrites



Category: BattleTech: MechWarrior, Ciaphas Cain - Fandom, Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Comedy, Crossover, F/M, Game of Thrones-esque, Gen, Giant Stompy Robots, Intrigue, Magic Bushido Hands, Ninja, Nobility, Tragic lack of Jurgen, Unwilling Hero, battlemechs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29539740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XenoWrites/pseuds/XenoWrites
Summary: Caiphas Cain never expected to be a Hero of the Imperium. He would have been perfectly happy just living a quiet life away from the front lines. Perhaps in his second chance at life, in this strange new universe, he might get that?At least in this universe, it's socially acceptable to put ten tons of BattleMech armor between danger and yourself. And even expected to avoid frontline postings, especially if you're close to the Archon! Most Archons. Not this Archon, as it turns out. Why are all the attractive blondes crazy?What do you mean, Katrina's sending him to deal with the rebellious Isle of Skye?
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

If there’s one thing that never changes in the universe, it is the monotony and drudgery of military life. Hurry up and wait, as the saying goes. Well, perhaps nowhere was it more true than in the Lyran Commonwealth Armed Forces, despite the eagerness of Katrina’s reforms, which had just begun to truly start.

We’d arrived in-system just two days earlier, and had already approached to orbit. In truth, this was blessedly quick, as opposed to the standard one week in Dropships, but upon arriving in orbit, our _Union_ -class Dropship had rather annoyingly come to a stop. The planet below, bearing yet another unfortunately generic name, had informed our Colonel that all the spaceports were absolutely full to capacity, and it would be some time before the landing pads could be cleared for us.  
  
Now, perhaps this might be a regular thing on another world. After all, our BattleMech Regiment was carried by no less than seven _Unions_ and nine of the smaller _Leopards_ … if it weren’t for the fact that the planet beneath us had numerous spaceports, at least three of which were within range of the capital, and one of which was solely reserved for military use.  
  
Perhaps I should revise my earlier statement. A military life is full of drudgery and monotony, but so too is it full of politicking, backstabbing, gambling, drinking, whoring, and sudden onset bouts of extreme violence. As this planet was the beating heart of an internal opposition to the Lyran Commonwealth, it appeared that the politicking had arrived before we’d even made planet-fall. I would say that it had arrived before the gambling or the drinking, had I not become rather intimately acquainted with the Chief Engineer’s private still just off the primary engine space.  
  
But, alas, as full of danger and boredom though a military life is, it was nonetheless, my life. And so here I was, a youthful looking man of supposedly thirty years, on my first line-duty assignment after eight years of ‘alternative duty’.

Though I know that no-one shall ever read these diaries or know the truth of my origin, as Gothic, both Low and High, are functionally either extinct or not-yet-invented, I still feel a sense of yearning to elaborate upon the many adventures which I so often find myself embarked unwillingly upon. If, at the least, it provides some frustration to dear Thelos Auburn or his daughter Misha to attempt to decipher these diaries after I’ve died, then perhaps that alone might be worth the effort.

So, as we of the 10th Lyran Regulars began an irritating wait of eight hours of zero-gravity, I looked forward, at the least, to once more to being able to simply _shoot_ my enemies, rather than politely smile at them.  
  
Of course, I mused as I gazed down at the planet of Skye, that only counted for the Draconis Combine.

* * *

There is something quite ego-inspiring about piloting a BattleMech, I found. For others, it would be the sight of people scurrying like ants beneath your feet, the raw destruction at your fingertips. For me, I’ve found that it was the eleven tons of armor plating wrapped around me. Despite the unpleasantness of the associated costs – the occasional headache, some shoulder pain, and a mild bit of sweat – there’s really nothing as comforting as so much armor in between you and the enemy. About the only downside that I’ve found to BattleMechs is that they lack a shower. Were it not for that, I’d try to live in one full time.  
  
Of course, as a mere Captain, or ‘Hauptmann’ in the quaint local dialect, I couldn’t get away with that. Strange habits are encouraged for heroes, allowed in generals, but most certainly were not appropriate for junior officers. Junior officers weren’t supposed to stand out in any way. Unfortunately, some of that was inevitable for me. Past sins coming due, perhaps.

As I marched my _Griffin_ out of our landed Dropship, I couldn’t help but suspect that a large amount of attention was on _my_ BattleMech in particular. It might have been the modifications I’d had the First Royals do back on Tharkad, but whatever the reason, there were an awful lot of bystanders pointing specifically at me, it seemed, and that’s never a good feeling. An awful lot of them were wearing the day uniforms of the current garrison, the 17th Skye Rangers. An ‘Elite’ unit, according to the LCAF’s performance metrics, but one with abominable loyalty levels; more loyal to their local Duke than to Archon Katrina Steiner.

And I’d been in the news just a few months before leaving Tharkad. A publicity operation for the LCAF, giving a speech at the Nagelring, my alma mater, about something or other. Infantry tactics, I vaguely recall.  
  
The discontent was sadly expected in this part of the Commonwealth, as Skye was the spiritual home of the ‘Free Skye’ movement. It was my experience that any politically radical movement had to be full of a mix of idealistic fools, greedy parasites and plain nutjobs. From what Katrina had informed me, Free Skye was no exception. They held two simple beliefs: that the Lyran Commonwealth under the Steiner dynasty had failed to defend Skye (the regional province, not the individual planet), and that therefore Skye would do better if they were independent.

The first belief was fair, to their credit. Katrina’s predecessor, Archon Alessandro, was too aggressive in reforms and strategy, and paid the price for both. More broadly, the Lyran Commonwealth had been losing the three-hundred-year war against the neighboring Draconis Combine, and largely due to military incompetence. Even Katrina agreed with this. That’s why she’d overthrown Alessandro, dragging me along for the ride.  
  
But the second belief, that they would do better independent, was exactly the kind of mind-numbing stupidity that true radicals believed. The so-called Isle of Skye bordered two hostile nations, so why not make it _three_ hostile nations, and fight with barely a quarter of their current military production and support? That couldn’t possibly go wrong!  
  
I suspected that the leaders of Free Skye were fully aware of that uncomfortable truth. The occasional bomb aside, Free Skye mainly just grumbled and made loud protests. They had committed no carefully orchestrated bombing campaigns over extended periods, no planetary revolutions or attempts to seize government buildings, no attempted assassinations of major Lyran figureheads. No, I think that the real leaders of Free Skye were smart enough to know that they _needed_ the rest of the Lyran Commonwealth. The complaining and independence movements were likely nothing more than an attempt to con some additional funding and military defense. Cry out the loudest, get the most reward, that kind of thing.

As I’ve often found over the course of my life, however, it doesn’t take a grand leader to cause enough problems for me. Just a few individuals with stupid ideas can do just as much damage.  
  
I was very careful when piloting my BattleMech to our nearby hanger as a result. No active mag-res scans that might trigger an alarm, plenty of caution where I placed my feet, and a couple quick looks around to make sure there were no suspicious packages inside the cubicle set aside for me, Captain Ciaphas Cain.

* * *

“What do you think of the place, David?” I asked my crew chief, after I’d swung out of my cockpit with appropriately dashing flair.  
  
“Looks proper to me, sir,” Staff Sergeant David Totentanz answered, looking up from where he was plugging some manner of large umbilical cord into my _Griffin’s_ back. “Barracks is clean, Mechbay isn’t dirty, and no unpleasant gifts left behind.”  
  
“Excellent,” I told the man. “Still, doesn’t hurt to keep an eye out, eh? Tell the boys there’s an extra drink ready if anyone spots any unpleasant gifts.”  
  
“Aye, sir!” the sergeant replied, a look of agreement and perhaps hunger on his face.  
  
Ah, the joys of the Lyran Commonwealth. Unlike some other places, the Lyrans seemed to understand quite well that a little incentive went a long ways, particularly when it was something like good beer or better yet, raw money. Since my last assignment had been to Asgard, otherwise known as High Command, I’d had ample time to acquire both.  
  
In the meantime, I walked around the cavernous Mechbay, greeting each of the ostentatiously named ‘Mechwarriors’ under my command. It was a bit odd to me, having spent so many years in the infantry or artillery, to technically have only eleven soldiers under my command. Of course, while my BattleMech Company comprised only twelve ‘Mechs, it also contained roughly four service crew for each ‘Mech, bringing the total to roughly fifty men – far less than the thousand I’d held at least nominal authority over, just a few decades back, albeit as a political officer rather than line command.

It did wonders for the morale of the men when I addressed them all by name, or better, asked after their interests or families. It was exactly the sort of thing that a kind, caring officer did, and it fit with their romantic ideas of what heroes did. Far more importantly, it meant that they were devoted and loyal, and would keep an eye out for my safety. Even the technical crews, who didn’t go into battle, would be invaluable for making sure nobody slipped a bomb into my cockpit, or sabotaged my heatsinks, or any one of a dozen ways to kill me.

Yet sadly, I couldn’t delay forever. After doing my best to ensure that my direct subordinates continued to treasure my existence (without pushing it too far), I had to depart for my spot in the officer’s barracks, and pray that my adjutant had managed to already flush out whatever surprises awaited us. A waiting open-topped groundcar was shuttling Mechwarriors back and forth, and I cheerfully hopped on, exchanging jokes with members of my own 1st Company and a quite nice redhead from 2nd Company to pass the time.  
  
The officer’s barracks was set in a relatively nice block of buildings. Almost all military structures are blocky, boring, and utilitarian, but at least this one had been power-washed sometime in the last few years. Further, the doors were guarded by MP’s of my own regiment, rather than the local 17th Skye Rangers. Of course, there’s no telling what they might have done _before_ we got there.  
  
I kept a smiling, jovial expression firmly in place, of course. Never let them see your panic, my old schola mentor always told me. Shame he wasn’t on the official teaching list, but sports like scrumball (or rugby, as closest local equivalent) were perfectly useful tools for an aspiring soldier.  
  
Once I’d flashed my identification and pressed a thumb onto the fingerprint scanner, the MP’s let me past the sturdy double-set of doors. Two steps into the entry hall revealed an emplaced machinegun covering the door, a trio of serious-faced infantry manning it. I nodded politely to them, masking the sudden bowel-clench, but they merely nodded back, and I swiftly walked out of the line of fire. In time, I’d grow accustomed to it, of course, but no soldier likes to find himself staring down a gun barrel.

My room was fairly spacious, given that I was in charge of a Company. A decently sized desk, a bed, a wardrobe and a closet, and enough space to pace. My adjutant was already inside, and had just finished putting my dress uniform out, in preparation for the welcoming ball tonight.  
  
“Everything accounted for, George?” I asked, as I entered the room.  
  
“Of course, sir,” George replied, looking up. A quietly effective man, George had been with me for some time, ever since that mess on Poulsbo. Still, the sight of him left an unpleasant pang in my stomach, like I’d eaten a pastry left out for too long. Nothing against him personally. I’d simply grown used to being able to tell my adjutant by smell.  
  
I trusted that he’d managed to ensure my quarters were free of listening devices, and that he’d have my back in a gunfight, and that would have to be good enough.  
  
“As a reminder, you have an invitation to the formal welcome dinner at the palace tonight,” George said, nodding to the dress uniform. “I’ve also taken the liberty of finding an exercise room that is sufficiently sound-proofed, and booking you a timeslot for the next hour.”

“Thank you, George,” I replied. “I’m in the mood for a quiet workout after all that fuss in orbit. In the meantime, why don’t you take a look around at the local recreational situation?”

“Of course, sir,” George said, with a calm nod.  
  
  


* * *

Life without strong enemies was meaningless. Just as the Dragon fought nobly against the Hound, so too did DEST fight their shadow-war against the enemy, and they were better for it.

Shiro Ishikawa, trained from childhood to be a warrior, could find no fault with this. He had not merely been told such things, but had experienced it himself. From the day of his first assignment, to his current status as a trusted senior operative, his own skills had grown with every hard-won victory, every close defeat. The times of plenty were slothful, for there was no hardship to force a man to grow. Even those truly devoted, who would stay vigilant in peaceful days, would not be pushed quite as hard, grow quite so mighty.

So life was, in the greatest and the smallest of ways. His nation, the Draconis Combine, proved this with every world taken from the feckless and indulgent Lyran Commonwealth – yet they prized their battles with the hardened, experienced soldiers of the Federated Suns all the more.

For Shiro and the Internal Security Force, they were far more fortunate. While only one of two neighbors provided a worthy military opponent, _both_ Davion and Steiner wielded formidable intelligence agencies, and with such diverse strengths! Davion’s MIIO and DMI were inventive, talented, and daring, while Steiner’s LIC was well-equipped, ruthless, and methodical.

Perhaps nowhere was this shown better than Skye, the namesake capital planet of the region. Despite growing separatist behaviors, much like the Draconis Combine’s province of Rasalhague, they were devoted to counter-intelligence operations. The fears of LIC spying sharpened the local security, and the LIC’s attempts to outwit the growing rebellion honed their edge further.

Were it not for the pivotal timing, the ISF might well have left Skye alone for a decade, smiling over tea as their enemies gutted themselves instead of watching the Dragon on their doorstep. But fate did not often allow such opportunities, and they would be fools to allow this one to pass.

The Archduke of Skye, Grethar Lestrade, had died in a civilian car crash of all things. The LIC and local intelligence investigated furiously, but indications were starting to show that it was an accident. Rumors had circulated that perhaps his young nephew, Aldo Lestrade, had arranged it to take the throne himself, but those rumors were dying down as evidence became more clear.

More concerningly, the rumors that DEST, the elite assassins of the Draconis Combine, had killed the Archduke were also dying down. In truth, the Draconis Elite Strike Teams had nothing to do with Archduke Lestrade’s death. Yet to admit so would not aid the Dragon, nor further his goals. The Dragon could not claim credit for an assassination that happened months prior, with none of the clear signs of their involvement, for it would be so obviously a lie.  
  
Where a clear statement would not do, however, a subtle implication would be more effective, showing that even Skye itself was not safe from the Dragon’s reach. To have a ‘second’ assassination within mere months of the Archduke’s death would lead many to suspect that the Combine had been behind the first as well, even with the lack of evidence. The LIC might not be convinced, but it would strengthen the separatist sentiments to point to how the Dragon could have achieved it, for they had just demonstrated their ability.  
  
But who to target? Similarities to the Archduke were of the highest priority, to further tie the ‘two’ deaths together. Someone who had a reputation for caring for the youth. Someone who was a supporter of the new Archon, Katrina Steiner. Least of all, someone who had some military importance, whose death would aid the Draconis Combine even if it did not convince the people that DEST had killed the Archduke.  
  
And like the gift unlooked for, the 10th Lyran Regulars had arrived on-planet. They were traveling to the frontlines, and re-routed to Skye as a show of the Archon’s support for the new Archduchess. Within their ranks was the perfect target – a bonafide ‘Hero of the Commonwealth’.

Ciaphas Cain, despite being a mere Hauptmann, was a symbol of Katrina’s new reign. A personal friend to the Archon, a supporter of her military reforms, and a surrogate uncle to her daughter Melissa. His face was widely circulated in recruiting posters, his deeds exaggerated in their decadent media. He was even expected to shake hands with the new Archduchess tonight.  
  
_What a pity for the Hauptmann, that he will miss the opportunity,_ Shiro mused as he slowly picked his way through the crawlspace between floors of the LCAF building. The ISF’s network of informants had spotted Cain entering this building not ten minutes ago for exercise. Cain was an avid swordsman, as rumor had it, and the long padded box the informants had spotted him carrying had confirmed that.  
  
Swordplay was no mere exercise for the Draconis Combine. Where the occidental cultures of the Lyrans treated it as a curiosity, the Combine knew well that swords were still a viable weapon of war, and trained themselves ruthlessly for it. Shiro himself had slain five men with a blade; two in honor duels, three in his work for the ISF.  
  
He wiggled further along, suspending his bodyweight along the bolted metal service-lines. Typical Lyran work, the supports were over-engineered to withstand earthquakes or enemy fire, despite merely carrying networking cables and phone lines. They were more than capable of holding his weight, allowing him to easily bypass the otherwise vigilant sentries and guards. The Lyrans had tried to patch this weakness with thermal sensors, but DEST’s infiltration suits had long been capable of disguising such signatures. Had the Lyrans simply shrunk these spaces, it would be impossible for a man to crawl within them, for assassinations. But it would hinder their laborers from managing the cables, and so the Lyrans had made the decision to allow a security weakness, all to aid a low-born servant in his tasks.  
  
A ventilator grate showed slivers of light, and Shiro carefully fed a tiny fiber-optic cable down. The miniscule camera displayed a typical exercise hall, with rows of treadmills and weight racks, but no sign of Hauptmann Cain. He must already have ensconced himself inside a private room for sword-drills.  
  
Long minutes passed slowly as Shiro crawled along, spreading his weight carefully to avoid weaknesses that might give way, or flimsy materials that might make noise. It was unfortunately inevitable that he could not avoid dust, but that evidence would only be visible after he had accomplished his mission and escaped the base.

Shiro checked the private exercise rooms one-by-one. The first was empty, the second occupied by two Lyran officers that may have been conducting an affair, or incompetently trying to wrestle. The third, however, contained a man stripped to the waist, running through sword drills with an absurdly large abomination in his hands. It was only by rote training that Shiro confirmed the identity of Cain, as a dark haired, tall, broad-shouldered man of occidental descent, with a prominent jaw-line.

His personal attention was on the sword in Cain’s hands – if he was even willing to call it that. Katanas were slim blades, and while occidental medieval blades were thicker, more like his DEST vibro-katana, the weapon in Cain’s hand was _enormous_. The blade was long, like a bastard sword, and it had the long grip capable of either one-handed or two-handed use, but instead of a blade of folded metal, it held a boxy rectangular housing with small, shorter blades sticking out at regular intervals. The main body was even _painted_ , as if it was some piece of repurposed junkyard scrap. Perhaps it was a weighted blade for training? Clearly, it was not a practical tool.  
  
Still, bizarre weapon or not, this only played further to Shiro’s advantage. Kendo emphasized the speed and precision of a strike, whereas European swordsmanship emphasized versatility and endurance. Despite Cain’s evident training, he could be expected to be slower than Shiro… and Shiro did not carry a regular blade, but a DEST vibro-katana, which would pierce through armor plating or other swords, while Cain would have to use his heavy, almost bludgeon like weapon, against the Kevlar-weave of Shiro’s infiltration suit. Better yet, the sweat indicated that Cain was well into his exercise, and would be tired by his prior exertion.  
  
As the Lyran carefully pulled his club through a slow series of strikes, Shiro carefully reached for the ceiling panel to his side, detaching it quietly and positioning himself. He would need to be swift in this kill, and return to the ceiling very quickly so that he may escape the base before Cain’s body was found. If the man had reserved it for a full hour, then no one should even attempt to open the locked door for another twenty minutes, which might be enough to see him safely out.  
  
Cain let out a harsh exhale and rested the training cudgel on a shoulder. He made an odd gesture, as if rubbing a palm, but Shiro paid it no attention. His target’s back was turned, and this was his moment.  
  
With the greatest of trained ease, Shiro Ishikawa dropped from the ceiling without a sound, drawing his vibro-katana as he rose from his crouch.  
  
Yet some noise must have betrayed him. Cain’s head whipped to the side, and the corner of his eye caught Shiro’s black-clad form.  
  
Shiro did not hesitate, leaping forward and thumbing the activator for his vibro-katana. One clean stroke would remove the Lyran’s head from his shoulders.  
  
But the Lyran dove to the side faster than Shiro expected, rolling on the padded flooring and rising back up, his cudgel held in two hands before him. Before Shiro could launch a second strike, the Lyran’s thumb moved, and the weighted blades on the cudgel _revved_. It was not a training blade, Shiro realized. It was a vibro-weapon like his own, but shaped bizarrely. The small blades spun, rather than the whole blade vibrating.  
  
His vibro-katana flicked out, his feet shifting closer in a perfect stance to redirect his momentum if need be, but the Lyran did not dodge a second time. Instead, the blocky weapon interposed itself, in a horrifically pathetic block that would not stop his vibro-blade. Yet his face was calm, his eyes blank mirrors reflecting the serene acceptance of his own death that marked a true samurai.

Then, with a snarling growl of some motor, the teeth of the sword caught the thrumming vibro-katana, and Shiro’s blade nearly ripped itself out of his hand, like a bucking horse. The metal teeth had trapped his blade, spitting it out much lower, at an awkward angle.  
  
Shiro’s eyes widened beneath his helmet. This was no training tool. The block was designed to trap other swords in the teeth. This was a fully functional _style_ , which he had never once heard of.  
  
The enemy’s sword lashed out at him in a savage slash, and it took every ounce of Shiro’s training to raise his own vibro-katana fast enough to deflect the attack. But this was not kendo, and the howling teeth of the blade once again caught on his katana, and nearly tore it from his hand, throwing his katana out of position again.  
  
Cain was no amateur. He was fast, faster than any man should be with such a heavy weapon. It should have been wielded like an axe, yet Cain’s wrists bent like it was just another sword, switching smoothly from two-handed to one-handed grips with ease. His blows were ruthless and swiping, as if it was a saber, but his style was utterly incomprehensible, with the revolving teeth. Shiro’s strikes were smashed aside as if struck by a sledgehammer, and it was a struggle not to be disarmed with every clash.  
  
And in Cain’s eyes, Shiro saw complete emptiness. No tightening of lips, no scowl of concentration. His face was blank, giving no clues as to his thoughts. 

* * *

Fergus let out a long-suffering sigh. _Fuck these bastards,_ he thought to himself, glancing at the green uniforms of the 10th Lyran Regulars around him.

Johnny-come-lately’s, all of them. Where were they when the boys of Skye had been forced on a suicide run to blow the Mantty River Dam with a nuke to drive the Dracs back? Where were they when Zebebelgenubi and Freedom fell to the Dracs? Where were they when the 17th Skye Rangers defeated the 5th Sword of Light, becoming the _only_ unit to ever best the so-called Gold Dragon?  
  
Oh, Fergus could think of one time that the Lyrans were present. Just six years before on Summer, when the Dracs raided, and killed the Duke. The Archon _oh-so-nobly_ sent the Third Royals, supposedly the best damn unit in the Commonwealth, to garrison the planet, and even they couldn’t keep the Dracs away. It was sheer luck that the Duke’s son, Aldo, was still alive. Crippled, with cybernetic hand, leg, and hip, unable to ever serve on the frontlines, having literally watched his father die before him.  
  
Fat lot of good these Lyrans had done for Skye… and now they showed up, all ready to support some street brat that good Archduke Grethar had adopted. As if _she_ was of the same blood as the Lestrades that’d ruled Skye for centuries. As if she was the rightful heir, and if anyone disagreed, the jackboots of the 10th Lyran Regulars would enforce her whims.  
  
Now, Fergus wouldn’t go so far as to say that the Steiners were all bad. He’d had the joy of meeting at least one good Steiner, General Frederick, and watching him thrash the ever-living hell out of both the Leaguers _and_ the Dracs. Which is why in the Lyran Commonwealth’s wisdom, they kicked him out to the toughest, hardest situation with barely any support, while Katrina Steiner sat on her stolen fucking throne, after going AWOL for _years_.  
  
AWOL with her husband, his cousins, and this jackoff named Cain. The husband was dead from cancer just a year back, the cousins were off playing daddy’s rich-boy mercenary for the _Fed-rats_ rather than defend their home, and Cain had spent four years kicking back on Tharkad in luxury, despite being a nobody.  
  
It was all too easy for Fergus to get lost in these thoughts, because there were just so goddamn many of them. So many ways that the Lyrans had failed Skye, and still demanded their taxes, as if they’d upheld their end of the bargain.

Which is why he’d take an extra-special pleasure in this fun little moment, as Fergus looked to John and Sylvan, making sure they were backing him up closely, as they marched towards the cordoned-off gymnasium.  
  
The official word was that two of the 10th Regular's officers had reported a security breach, involving this Hauptmann Cain. The unofficial word, already spreading on the base in just five minutes after the alarm sounded, was that the two officers had been fucking in one of the gym’s rooms and heard a crashing sound from Cain’s room, so they panicked and ran out.  
  
Namby bastards didn’t know anything. Didn’t know that you took your woman _out_ to have a date, instead of fucking in a goddamn common area like savages. Didn’t know what a _real_ Drac infiltrator would be like.  
  
That was why the 10th Lyran Regulars had called them in. For all the rumors about them being a full ‘Regimental Combat Team’ with a full infantry Regiment, at least one sensible head in the Regulars knew that the 17th Skye was the best damn unit in this theatre, and that they’d actually tangled with Drac infiltrators trying to kill VIPs. It was likely that they’d be redeployed to Summer eventually, when the fake Archduchess inevitably kicked them out, but in the meantime, _they_ were the best on-planet, which meant _their_ MP’s would control the damn crime scene.

It wouldn’t be fair to call the lingering bystanders outside the gym a ‘crowd’, because the military didn’t _do_ crowds. They were a respectful distance away, and they were keeping to themselves, and that’s all that Fergus cared about. At least half of them had clearly been kicked out of the gym in the middle of their workouts, but the rest were just lackadaisical little rubberneckers.

Fergus nodded politely to the Sergeant standing sentry by the door with a full squad in combat gear, rifles at the ready. Trust the infantry to understand the basics, even if they were Lyrans.  
  
“Victim still inside?” Fergus demanded, as John split off to join the guard team at the front door.  
  
“Hauptmann Cain is still within,” the Sergeant said. “Only asked to leave once, and when I said no, he cooperated.”  
  
“I’ll interview him,” Fergus told the man. “Sergeant Rochfert here will handle the crime scene.”  
  
“It’s pretty bloody in there,” the Lyran Sergeant warned him.  
  
Fergus smiled back politely, and walked in quickly, so that he didn’t say something rude back.

Bloody, indeed. It’s almost like two people tried to fuckin’ kill each other inside. Who would have guessed! Sergeant bumfuck clearly hadn’t ever had to get in the dirty. Not just shooting a man from a couple hundred meters out, but actually in the melee and scrum with a man, where you might have to use your knife, your boots, or even your bare hands.  
  
A few steps in, and Fergus sighed. Maybe he shouldn’t be too hard on the kid. They were just giving out Sergeant’s stripes left and right these days. Didn’t mean that he should _wish_ for the kid to see all the horrors of war.  
  
He walked down the hallway, noticing the abandoned water-bottles and towels. Signs of panic, but no violence. It must have been fairly contained. A couple hallways down for the private rooms, and bam, there was Hauptmann Cain, all two meters of him.

The Archon’s man was wearing a loose, unbuttoned jacket and some dark sweat-pants wet with something, sweat probably. He’d clearly been in the middle of a workout, with his hair still slick. Most concerning, he had some long box leaning nearby, easily long enough for a gun.

“Hauptmann Cain?” Fergus called out, keeping his attention firmly on the man’s hands.  
  
Cain jolted up from his slouch against the wall, and his body-language changed from exhausted athlete to tired officer in an instant.  
  
“Ah, Sergeant, good to have you here,” Cain replied with a nod, as if he’d been expecting them sooner. “The body’s inside there. I’m afraid there isn’t much left of the man, but he wasn’t surrendering, so I was unable to take him alive.”  
  
The Lyran gestured at the still closed door, and Fergus couldn’t help but notice a splatter of blood across the man’s hand.  
  
“Are you injured?” he asked, pointing to the hand.  
  
“This? No, that’s his,” Cain said, his tone remarkably even.  
  
Right. Oldest trick in the book, that. Get yourself an injury to look heroic, then pretend it’s the blood of your enemy. Fergus wasn’t buying that for an instant.  
  
“What’s in the case, sir?” Fergus said, keeping his tone as polite as he could manage.  
  
“My sword,” Cain replied calmly. “I was in the middle of some practice drills when the Drac dropped in front of me. I’m just glad he wasn’t smart enough to wait until I’d put the sword away.”  
  
“Do you have any guesses as to why they targeted you?” Fergus asked, gesturing for Sylvan to go check out the room.  
  
“None occurred to me at the time,” Cain said, as if he’d simply forgotten to think about it. “Perhaps he assumed I was up for a match?”  
  
“Sir, you need to take this seriously,” Fergus said, tightly leashing his flash of annoyance at the man, as a slow odor of some foul smell started trickling into his nose.  
  
“Oh, I am,” Cain said with a smile. “It’s just-”

“Fergus?” Sylvan interrupted, his tone disturbed. “You should see this.”  
  
Holding up a finger to cut off the too-calm Hauptmann, Ferus went over to the door. Sylvan was already inside, and he had a look of almost stupefied horror on his face, like he couldn’t believe something. His jaw was clamped tight, like he was trying to keep from gaping.  
  
Fergus took one step inside the room, and a wave of that smell from earlier smacked into him, like he’d been clubbed with a raw fish. The wall had a splatter of blood across it, like some movie-director’s idea of what arterial spray looked like, rather than the real thing.

It would have been almost comedic, were it not for the dead man on the ground, a horrendous gash torn in his side, like a bear had taken an enormous bite. Bits of flesh were scattered around the man’s feet, a couple of which looked awfully like fingers. The bright red blood was hard to see against the black of the exercise mats, and the thick black body-suit that the man was clad in. Add in the damaged vibro-katana lying on the ground a couple meters away, and the distinctive tri-goggle helmet, and it was clear – definitely a DEST assassin.  
  
“What the fuck makes a wound like that?” Sylvan muttered, crouching down as he stared at the ragged hole.  
  
Fergus could barely look away himself. It wasn’t a knife-wound, or even a clean vibro-blade cut. It was like something had gripped the Drac’s skin and torn it piece-by-piece, like a cat clawing at a scratching post – and straight through the armor-weave that Fergus _knew_ from experience could stop pistol rounds.  
  
“Do you need anything else from me?”  
  
He looked up, and Cain was standing in the doorway, that placid expression of military boredom still on his face, even with the corpse of his would-be assassin right in front of him.  
  
“Yes,” Fergus said slowly, looking back at the long case resting against the wall. “I need to see your sword.”  
  
“Oh?” Cain said, as if surprised. “I didn’t have the chance to clean it. Are you sure?”  
  
“Hauptmann, show me the weapon,” Fergus repeated, staring Cain straight in the face.  
  
Cain looked back, his expression finally shifting from polite calm to something that actually indicated he’d just _butchered_ someone. His eyebrows tensed, his chin dipped, and he looked at Fergus with a long, knowing look. It still showed no shock, no guilt, none of the jitters that Fergus expected… but finally, Cain wasn’t pretending this was all just routine!  
  
“It’s not a pretty sight,” Cain said, his voice still nonchalant, as he reached for the case and opened it.  
  
Fergus looked down at the weapon. It wasn’t a sword. It was a chainsaw, shaped like a sword. The rectangular body was professionally made, but had small dents and a thin slicing line halfway down it’s boxy shape, matching the damage to the vibro-katana. The chainsaw’s teeth were stained red, and Fergus realized why the blood on the wall had looked so fake – the chainsaw-sword had sprayed the blood like it was sawdust. _  
_  
_What kind of madman uses a weapon like this?_ Fergus wondered, unable to take his gaze from it.  
  
“I’d be more than please to assist in your investigation, of course,” Cain said, in the background of Fergus’s hearing. “But I’m afraid I _do_ have a pressing dinner invitation.”  
  
Fergus snapped his head up, and glared at the Lyran Regular officer. Like hell was he going to be wandering off for some dinner after the goddamn bloodbath he’d made of that man, Drac or not! At the very least, he needed to be questioned extensively, in a proper interrogation room  
  
Cain looked back at him, and the knowing expression changed once more, shoulders rising and a firm look of disapproval, punctuated by the _click_ of the chainsword’s case snapping shut. Despite being a Lyran, and outside of Fergus’s chain of command, he resisted the involuntary urge to stiffen to attention, as the stare of Command gazed at him.  
  
“I’ll be sure to pass on word of your diligent work to Duke Lestrade, of course,” Cain said, and Fergus’s thoughts came to a grinding halt. “But since he cared to send a personal invitation to tonight’s dinner at the palace, I would rather not disappoint him. Would you?”  
  
“No sir, I would not,” Fergus said, his mouth suddenly dry.  
  
“Good work, trooper,” Cain said, patting him on the shoulder. Fergus stared at Cain as he walked off, the case for his chainsword tucked under his arm, not noticing the blood still spattered across his hands and legs.  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested in this story, or just hanging out, you are welcome to join my Discord server. https://discord.gg/ywMZtJZztK


	2. Chapter 2

I’m still not quite sure what I think of formal parties. They were quite enjoyable in my youth, and like most soldiers, I’m always fond of a chance to drink the best liquor and sample the best foods. Easy enough to play up the simple-minded, humble soldier, which the nobility expects of me. On the other hand, I’ve seen enough formal balls and glamorous shin-digs wind up in firefights and assassinations, which usually involve me in some way or form.

Further, unlike my old Commissariat uniform, the LCAF’s dress uniforms were not armored, nor designed for combat. They were _strictly_ dress uniforms, with dark-blue jackets with a high neck and stirrup-style white pants that attach to foppish black shoes. No practicalities, more resembling court garb than a proper uniform. During my time at the Nagelring, this had struck me as a clear sign of the old LCAF’s priorities, and why they historically had more incompetent officers – but I digress.  
  
All of this meant that I was walking into a formal event with no armor, and would be highly dependent on the local palace guard to defend me; a terrifying thought, particularly after remembering that this was a periodically rebellious province, and the palace guard might shoot _me_ instead of the local terrorists. Worst of all, with how vulnerable and exposed I would be, like a duck floating with the crocodiles, I couldn’t even drink to any enjoyable amount, lest it dull my senses.  
  
All in all, I was prepared for a quite miserable evening as the regimental limousine trundled along up to ‘Honor of Skye’, the local palace.

My CO, the venerable Lieutenant-General Ashberry, must have agreed with me, because there were no other officers of the 10th with us, despite this event supposedly being held in our honor. Ashberry was an emotionless sort, the kind of man that could be mistaken for a wall in dim lighting. He spoke as little as possible, and drilled his men to the best of their ability, but unlike some officers, appeared quite understanding that some men simply weren’t capable of that much.

Even before I’d joined the 10th, I gathered that he was quite a competent commander, for the 10th _were_ a Veteran-rated unit despite being of the ‘lesser’ Lyran Regulars, rather than the Lyran Guards. Yet there was some political factor that had kept Ashberry stuck here, in this posting. I wondered, sometimes, if his understanding nature was actually just sad exhaustion at how poorly his unit was regarded, how terrible most of his replacement soldiers were, and how most of the Regiment largely preferred to hang around bars rather than train for combat.

To his credit, if he did think this way, the General never let those thoughts show, particularly around me. He did the best he could, with what pitiful left-overs he was given. His ability to turn shit into silver (yet never quite into gold) was perhaps his best quality as an officer, but it meant that after he’d finally turned his men into something good, they were transferred out to better units, and he was given more slackers, malcontents, and bums. Too often, they also took their BattleMechs with them, and replacement ‘Mechs were slow in coming.

From a glance at his file, I knew that his promotion to Lieutenant-General when the 10th was re-built into a full Regimental Combat Team was the first promotion he’d gotten in two decades. I didn’t know if he regarded the additional Regiments as a sign of trust in his ability, or more trash for him to turn into competent soldiers, before watching them leave to earn glory with another, more reputable Regiment.

I never was quite sure what Ashberry thought of me, even after our long years of working together. Another slacker and party-animal, drinking amongst the common men? A potential reformer, often found amongst the Infantry Regiment attached to us? Katrina Steiner’s glory-hungry war hero, foisted off to a training unit where he wouldn’t get into too much trouble?   
  
On this night, like many others, the man was simply inscrutable. I suppose that worked out for the best, in the end.  
  
Honor of Skye was a fairly interesting palace, as far as my standards go. I’ve seen quite a few, and while it lacked the golden luster of many, it had something which other, more ostentatious palaces simply lacked. Perhaps it was the utilities, like the tennis courts and stables I spotted, showing that the obligatory sprawling gardens were more for actual use, rather than solely for showing off. Perhaps it was the practicalities, like the road channeling us into fire-lanes and past shrubberies that were perfect spots for heavy weapons teams, with decorative, white-walled buttresses that were functional cover.  
  
The palace simply didn’t pretend to be more extravagant than it truly was. I’d seem some planetary governors with mansions that looked like they were from Holy Terra itself, golden walls and guards with golden lasguns and carpet designed to replicate their faces. Gaudy things, full of elaborate decadence, while their cities were entirely different in architecture. They simply didn’t fit. But Honor of Skye did. It seemed perfect for the mixture of industry, economy, and nature reserve of Skye. Emerald-green armed infantry from the Skye Rangers stood as ceremonial guards, with all-too functional weapons for my liking.

The General’s driver pulled us right up to the edge of a polished white marble portico, and we stepped out of the limo, our black shoes standing out nicely.  
  
I nodded politely to the driver, a non-com that would spend the night gambling and drinking with the other non-commissioned officers in a back hall. He drove off, and it felt like my heart tried to follow him, yearning for any escape.

* * *

The reception hall was filled with preening nobles, immaculate architecture, and gaudily dressed LCAF officers. I was no stranger to elaborate uniforms, but the key word in that phrase is _uniform_. I’d once seen twenty-five officers bedecked in bright red battledress, their buttons in gold and their stitchwork in silver, and what had looked strange on an individual settled into a pleasant appearance when repeated across many. LCAF officers, however, seemed almost allergic to the word. My practiced eye could not spot a single uniform regulation that was followed faithfully, and each one deviated from the next, so they weren’t even consistent.  
  
The surroundings, on the other hand, were the same mixture of tasteful but functional architecture as the exterior. Light-colored marbles mixed with rosewood paneling on the floors and walls, plush green carpets with golden tassels in the center of rooms. No excess of gilt or glitter, no wealth thrown in your face. Tasteful, I believe the interior decorators call it.  
  
The result was a clash of appearances that almost made my nose wrinkle. It was like a junior cadet prom in civilian dress; a mix of high-class and low-class that worked together poorly. The worst part was that I’d _seen_ people deliberately alter uniforms before, and that still looked better than this. One officer wore his school rag (a local tradition involving a sash, but which is worn like a cummerbund) around his upper arm, while his conversational partner wore his around his shoulders, like a half-cape. Another officer had swapped his dress shoes for riding boots, but brown suede boots instead of slick black cavalry boots that would have worked with his uniform and been perfectly sensible.  
  
The gaudiest of them all was a tall blond-haired man holding court with a half-dozen Kommandants in one of the numerous sub-rooms that were publicly open for the ball. He wore an emerald dress jacket, rather than the light-blue jacket from regulations. The metal shoulder-epaulets were gold, instead of standard silver. His school rag was a darker forest green, indicating he’d graduated from the local academy, Sanglamore, rather than my own Nagelring, and the sash itself was edged in gold. Though he bore both the Dragonslayer’s Ribbon and the Eagle’s Feather, the ‘place of glory’ at the center of his school rag was occupied by the Honor of Skye – a medallion normally worn around the neck, much larger than the usual small pins or medals placed in that spot.  
  
All in all, the man was a near perfect icon of Skye’s separatist wing, which made three things about him very unpleasant. The first was that he was a high-ranking LCAF officer, a General by the insignia. That such a high-ranking officer from a _non_ -Skye unit was so strongly aligned with them was a bad sign.

The second, which I noticed as he turned and locked eyes on me, was that his own eyes were steel gray, Steiner gray. This was Frederick Steiner, the Archon’s own cousin, commander of the 10th Lyran Guards, widely regarded as one of the best military minds in the Commonwealth, and noted domestic political enemy.

The third unpleasant thing was that Frederick stopped talking abruptly with his current partner, and started walking straight towards me.  
  
I turned and beelined it for the buffet line. I wasn’t naïve enough to believe that Frederick had simply mistaken me for someone else, or that he’d lose track of me (not with my height); I just wanted to grab a quick drink before he cornered me. Sadly, there was none of the imported Capellan teas that I enjoyed, so I grabbed a cup of fortifying black tea.  
  
Katrina had told me about Frederick’s personality, but it had been years ago. I tried to remember what she said, but all I could think of was a casual mention that he was great friends with Aldo Lestrade, Duke of Summer, and unofficial leader of the Free Skye movement – as if that wasn’t blindingly obvious from Frederick’s leprechaun green dress uniform. Nothing about his personal foibles jumped out of the swampy quagmire of my old memories.

“Hauptmann Cain,” a rumbling voice said from behind me, like the growl of an Ork warbuggy. I took a swig of the unfamiliar tea, and turned around to face my superior officer.  
  
“General Steiner,” I greeted, looking down at him and nodding politely. “What can I do for you?”  
  
“You can answer some questions for me, Hauptmann,” Frederick said, looking up at me, with a distinctly unamused expression on his face. I didn’t know if it was because he was irked at me running off, or because he was used to being taller than junior officers, but I wasn’t about to apologize for my height. Wish I’d been born _shorter_ , yes, but apologize? Never. If I did that, then people might start to make more demands of me, and who knows what kind of mess _that_ would lead to.  
  
I hesitated for a millisecond. When in doubt, fall back on your strengths – and one of my few strengths was my ability to pretend to be a simple, honest military man. Still, Frederick was already inclined to hate me, just from my friendship with his cousin, so I needed to put him off balance quickly.  
  
“Absolutely,” I told Frederick. “A full briefing for you and your command staff, at whatever time works best. Or if you want, I can give an abbreviated one without the slides right now – though we might want to clear the room of civilians, since it’ll probably bore most of them, and they wouldn’t understand it.”  
  
“What are you talking about?” Frederick asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “I wasn’t informed of any briefing.”  
  
Of course, he wasn’t. I’d just made the whole thing up, but he didn’t know that.

“The new Regimental Combat Team structure,” I told Frederick, trying my best to look earnest and plain. “It’s a bit unorthodox, but High Command thinks it’ll do wonders against the Mariks, and help blunt the Kurita blitzkrieg.”  
  
“Is that what Katrina sent you out here for?” Frederick demanded, his voice twisting into something dark at the mere naming of the Archon.  
  
“Truthfully… no,” I said, pausing for a moment, before glancing to the side and leaning in a bit. “The 10th – sorry, the 10th Regulars, I know that must be confusing with you running the 10th Guards-”

“It happens,” Frederick interrupted, a little impatience in his voice, as he almost subconsciously leaned forward a little as well. “Talk. Why are you here?”  
  
“We were originally intended to garrison Ryde,” I told Frederick truthfully, before laying on a little of my own supposition. “High Command re-tasked us to help garrison Skye after news of the Archduke’s death. They didn’t know if Kurita was behind it, so a good show of strength to show the damn Dracs that they can’t intimidate the Commonwealth.”  
  
“Damn right, they can’t,” Frederick agreed, taking a chug of his fluted drinking glass like it was a beer stein, and then gesturing with the glass for me to continue. “You think there’s any truth to that, or is it just more smoke being blown up our ass from Tharkad?”

“Well, I can’t say what information the LIC has, of course,” I replied, shrugging modestly, before continuing a little more casually. “But in my opinion, it’s a damn reasonable guess. Just three hours ago, a Drac tried to gut me in the middle of Fort McHenry.”  
  
“What?” Frederick snapped, his raised voice drawing more than a few nearby stares. “In the middle of _my base?!_ Was security _asleep?_ I’m going to keel-haul those bastards!”

“I don’t think so,” I disagreed politely, as Frederick stared. I almost imagined that I could see little snorts of fire coming out of his nose, though I couldn’t tell if it was at the idea of Combine infiltrators inside his base or at a lowly Hauptmann disagreeing with him. “They responded quickly when I alerted them. The 17th Skye secured the gym within two minutes.”

“Run off to find the nearest MP, did you?” Frederick asked, a slight tilt of the lips betraying his dismissive amusement.  
  
“Oh, no!” I said, forcing a chuckle and a slight grin of my own. “Typical Drac arrogance saved my life, really – he must’ve seen me practicing with my sword and decided that I was an offense to his honor, or something like that. He had the drop on me, but didn’t even try shooting! Jumped out of the ceiling with a katana and tried to chop my head off. I don’t think he expected me to actually be _good_.”  
  
“You’re telling me that you killed a DEST ninja in a sword duel?” Frederick asked, rhetorically. “Like I’d buy that, coming from-”  
  
“I can show you the body, if you want,” I offered, cutting him off with a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “Sergeant Fergus of the 17th Skye secured the crime scene, we can ask where he put it.”  
  
Frederick went still, his eyes locked on me, and I held my smile and stared back, the jitters locked firmly in a clenched hand behind my spine. I’d let Frederick drive the conversation thus far to keep him happy, answering whatever questions he’d asked, but I couldn’t just bend over the whole time, or he wouldn’t respect me as a soldier, and that would spell my death just as quickly as calling out his Free Skye sympathies would.

Yet I’d trapped him now. He couldn’t doubt just my word, he would have to disagree with a Skye Ranger from the most separatist-influenced unit as well.  
  
“You’re that good with a sword, eh?” Frederick said, after a few moments of staring.  
  
“Captain of the Fencing Club at the Nagelring for three years,” I told him. “Truth be told, I’m damn glad he _did_ try it while I had a sword in my hand. I wasn’t the best student, spent more time on the rugby field and the fencing salle than I did in the libraries.”  
  
“A good sport, Rugby,” Frederick said, eyeing me a little less suspicious now. “What position did you play, prop?”  
  
“Eight-man,” I replied, gesturing at my shoulders. “You?”  
  
“Same,” Frederick said with a nod. He stared at me for a few moments, without any attempt to disguise his curious look, before he continued. “Hm. My staff will inform you what time works for that briefing.”  
  
General Steiner took a final chug of his fluted drink, then turned and walked back to the gaggle of Kommandants, leaving me along at the buffet table. The Kommandants had been polite enough to pretend that they weren’t staring, but as Frederick rejoined them, they swiftly returned to their previous discussion with practiced ease.  
  
And that was how I met Frederick Steiner, the single most graceless man I’d ever met. I’d seen Orks with more ability to deceive and Tyranids with more discretion than that gloriously blunt man.

Still, there was not a single man more capable of fighting a battle. I could only imagine how good of friends we might have been, if he’d lived in the Imperium when I was a Commissar. I could have pointed Freddy-boy at any number of enemy formations and trusted him to win the day, while I ran off to hide, and he never would have suspected that I was just making up excuses.  
  
It might seem strange, but sometimes a good commander must ignore things that he couldn’t control and focus on what he could, and Frederick, that blessedly simple-minded soul, was amazing at that. Of course, the one issue Frederick refused to ignore was his belief that Katrina was a traitor, and that he would do better on the throne. Typical, really.

I fled the room as quickly as I could. Practically everyone was staring at me, with how loud Frederick had been, and that kind of attention never bodes well. I lifted my teacup in a salute to the stares, and then strode out like I was off to conduct an emergency inspection, chin lifted and eyes straight ahead.  
  
The next room over was the dancing room, and the slightest swell of nausea trickled out of my stomach as I looked at the dancing couples whirling in a waltz, while the immaculately tuxedoed orchestra played. I think it was bad tea, though I’m not unwilling to admit that the music itself didn’t help. I kept waiting for the traditional waltz to transition into a more jazzy tune, with a singer, yet it didn’t come.

The businessmen had taken over the next room, an ostentatious and cavernous hall that held an enormous hand-carved table pushed up against the wall. Perhaps it was the main dining room for formal dinners. Though the surroundings were grandiose, the businessmen – and women, for it was hardly gender-isolated – were clad almost uniformly in tailored business suits. Cream, navy, tan, gray – every fashionable color was in evidence, but fashion in business is thankfully far more subdued than among the nobility.

My dark-blue junior officer’s jacket and white trousers stood out amongst the crowd in contrast, even though I was almost entirely abiding by the uniform regulations, unlike most officers present. I will admit to one small modification, but I was hardly the only man carrying a sword on his hip, even if LCAF rules didn’t officially allow it.

I mingled among the businessmen for some time, but they didn’t seem to much like my presence. A few asked about what tax changes Katrina might make, and my humble soldier routine was incapable of answering their questions. I did have an enjoyable conversation with a representative from Timbiqui Spirits, since I’d spent some time at Poulsbo, just two jumps from Timbiqui itself, but it didn’t last long, and I had to move on soon enough.

I slipped into the next room past a set of door guards, like every grand doorway had, but these were far more attentive, and their eyes lingered on my saber and my holstered laser pistol. It didn’t take long to realize why – the room was nearly empty, and standing next to a large bay window was a woman with pretty, though not beautiful features. Her dark skin contrasted nicely with a green dress.  
  
Archduchess Margaret Aten looked up as my bootsteps echoed on the marble, just audible over the dimming sounds of the businessmen next door.  
  
“Your grace,” I said, clicking my heels together and bowing at the waist, in the proper Germannic style.

It also kept my face out of sight for a moment, as I tightly stuffed my rising panic out of sight. This was no mere Planetary Duke, but the equivalent to a Sector Governor. She was _the_ ruling authority, and I hadn’t actually been planning on meeting her tonight. Once nobility knows your face, they’ll never let you escape their power games. The only way out is a deployment far beyond their reach – and with an Archduchess, that reach is very long.  
  
“Hauptman… Cain,” the Archduchess said, her gaze sweeping over me. I could almost feel a sweat building in my armpits – she already knew my name.  
  
“It is a pleasure to meet you, your grace,” I said, rising from my bow. “I apologize for intruding, but I must confess that I was fleeing the businessmen. Not quite a proper place for a soldier, you see.”  
  
“Really?” the Archduchess inquired politely, one elegantly-groomed eyebrow quirking upwards, as she turned away from the window. “I’m surprised. Not going to milk them for a few beers?”  
  
“I – must confess the thought hadn’t occurred to me,” I said, hesitating a little at her words.  
  
“Bull,” the Archduchess said, looking me straight on.  
  
“Bull?” I repeated, unsure of what she was precisely saying.  
  
“Bull,” Archduchess Aten said again. “Short for bullshit. As in, I’m not buying it.”  
  
“I’m… sorry?” I said, that suppressed panic rising back up.  
  
“Three months in Dropships, with the 10th Lyran Regulars,” Aten said, still staring straight at me. “You probably ran out of booze three weeks in. Moonshine’s decent, but you just spent four years on Tharkad, so I imagine you didn’t like it much. You were polite enough to most of them, but as soon as the Timbiqui rep appeared, you latched onto him for twenty minutes.”  
  
It took an almost physical effort to keep my expression straight.  
  
“How…” I started to ask, before trailing off.  
  
Aten gestured with one hand towards the window she’d been staring at, and I saw a faint light coming from the sill. There was a small tablet there, the screen displaying a camera feed.  
  
“You were watching?” I asked, the question almost redundant. “How… security conscious of you.”  
  
“You mean paranoid,” Aten said.  
  
“I would never be so bold,” I replied, from a long-trained habit. Downplay, demur, doubt, tone it down, the four watchwords of bluffing.

Aten said nothing in response, merely staring back. I felt an unpleasant sensation, not unlike the common fear of waking up to find you’re late for a vital appointment, or that you haven’t studied for that test, or you’re standing in front of a crowd in just your underwear.

I was rather distantly impressed, beneath the building worry of so much attention from an Archduchess. Aten was so young, barely into her twenties, and yet she’d cut straight through my little act.  
  
“Why are you here, Cain?” Aten asked, finally breaking the silence.  
  
“You know, you’re not the first to ask me that tonight,” I told her. “General Steiner didn’t seem to believe that we were simply here to reinforce Skye, given the… unfortunate circumstances. You have my condolences, my lady, from one orphan to another.”  
  
Aten blinked, and for just a moment, I saw her mask of blunt indifference crack, and there was an almost intolerable sadness in her eyes. Pain, both raw and fresh, but also some old, long-buried suffering resurfacing. Then the stare was back, and Margaret Aten’s face closed up like a Dropship’s loading bay, leaving nothing but bare steel before me.

“Thank you for your honesty,” she said, her voice perfectly steady. “But you didn’t answer my question. Why are _you_ here?”  
  
Damn. Try to deflect with actual sympathy, and all you do is piss her off. _Great job, Cai, now she’ll never forget you,_ I told myself silently.

But what to say? Well, when in doubt, blame your superiors and say you were just following orders.  
  
“Where Katrina Steiner points, I go,” I told her.  
  
“Katrina,” Margaret Aten repeated.

“Katrina,” I confirmed, with a slight nod.

The Archduchess pressed her lips together tightly, and didn’t say anything for a few moments, clearly tossing some thoughts around inside her head. I waited patiently, though I’m not quite sure why she was putting so much thought into such a simple excuse.  
  
“I am happy to have the confidence of the Archon,” Margaret Aten finally replied, her tone appropriately formal. A polite say-nothing phrase, the perfect response to my own excuse.  
  
I nodded, and despite the natural ending of that conversation, I forced myself to stay put. I was no longer a Commissar of the Imperial Guard, and therefore able to ignore some noble protocols – like having to ask permission before leaving the presence of such a high-ranking noblewoman.

Margaret Aten seemed to have understood, however, because she returned my nod and flicked her eyes over to the door, with implicit permission to leave.  
  
“Excuse me, your grace,” I apologized, bowing once again. “I’m afraid I should probably make my appearances among the sharks before they try to hunt me down, and disturb you in the process.”  
  
The Archduchess’s lips turned upwards ever-so-slightly, and she watched as I carefully stepped back, turned about face, and strode away smoothly, calmly, and most definitely not hurrying out.

The rest of the ball passed quickly, as best as I can recall. There were several congratulatory nods and slaps on the shoulder from some suddenly friendly Skye noblemen, and I wasn’t quite sure _why_ until near the end of the night.  
  
Perhaps two hours after my chat with the Archduchess, I’d just finished off a cup of tea, and nearly ran over some poor little man as I turned around to refill my cup. Thankfully, the cup was empty, or I definitely would have spilled it all over him. As it was, the cup nearly smashed into his chin, he was so short.  
  
“Oh my, I’m so sorry!” I apologized quickly, stepping back, biting back an instinct ‘I didn’t see you there’ that the man would almost certainly take as an insult about his height.  
  
Then I got a good look at the man’s face. Maybe I should have made that insulting comment, no matter the political consequences. My prior headache came rushing back all at once.  
  
“No problem at all, Hauptmann,” said Aldo Lestrade, Duke of Summer, in a warm, friendly manner, like we were two old acquaintances re-uniting after a long absence. “I’m so glad that you could make it, I was afraid you hadn’t gotten my invitation!”  
  
There was a flicker of shutter-sounds, and at the corner of my eye, I could see a paparazzo a few dozen feet away, snapping pictures as Aldo Lestrade extended his hand, a broad grin on his face.  
  
_Danger_ , my instincts were screaming. Two contradictory urges sprang into mind, and I had to suppress both of them quickly – shaking the rebellious Duke’s hand would be a propaganda victory for him. Archon’s Agent makes Friends with Duke Lestrade! Hero of Commonwealth supports Free Skye! Similarly, no matter how personally satisfying the urge might be, shooting Aldo in the head as a traitor would start an outright rebellion.  
  
Lestrade’s hand hung out in front of me, and the camera was still clicking away. _Not_ shaking his hand would look rude, insulting, and perhaps damage the Archon’s attempts to keep Free Skye calm… but I couldn’t bring myself to offer even the dour, expressionless handshake of a soldier. My palms with itching just looking at the short, stumpy little man, and maybe it was just the lingering Commissar in me, but I couldn’t even imagine shaking a traitor’s hand.

“Duke Lestrade,” I finally said, after another few moments of awkward tension, as I scrambled to find something to say. “Any chance to drink and meet pretty women, I’ll be there.”  
  
Aldo laughed, a boisterous noise for such a small man, and threw his head back as if I’d made some humorous joke. The cameras clicked, but my hands were carefully away from Aldo’s, and my face was as cold as a Valhallan holiday resort. Aldo wiped a pretend tear out of his eye, and I saw a flash of something angry, something burning in his eyes, as he finished his faked laughter.  
  
“Hang around me, my good friend, and there will always be plenty of both,” Aldo said, spreading his arms wide, dropping the attempt to shake my hand.  
  
I nearly groaned as I remembered that among his many, many personal habits, Aldo Lestrade was a notable womanizer, flirt, and social drinker. My usual humble soldier act wouldn’t be quite as effective here, and I’d already stepped in crap by admitting some shared interests with the Duke. I would need something more stoic, more stern. Thankfully, there was no end to stoic and stern figures in my life, and I myself had put on a good performance when the troops needed me. Lyran Generals might be social butterflies, but _Imperial_ Generals were bulldozers and meatgrinders.  
  
“Please, you must come to one of my parties,” Aldo said. I was quite surprised at his ability to look up at my face, two feet above his, and not look ridiculous. He must have practiced his posture endlessly. “I’m holding a small gathering of friends just next weekend, in downtown New Glasgow. I’d be honored if you could attend.”  
  
“I cannot,” I replied, a touch stiffly, as I looked down with a tinge of disrespect. “I’m afraid I’ll be busy for the next several weeks with my Regiment. The enemies of the Commonwealth will hardly sit around and wait for us.”  
  
Unfortunately, we were starting to gather a bit of a crowd. Some of the men were clearly Aldo’s lackeys, but others were finely-garbed Skye noblemen, with very few women for some reason, and quite a few were military officers with the circular unit-patches of the Skye Rangers. To my regret, very few wore the shield-shaped patch of the 10th Lyran Guards, Frederick’s unit, which was historically commanded by the Archon’s Heir and might have been a bit more sympathetic to the LCAF over Skye. Katrina herself had commanded them for a time, before that whole going AWOL to play pirates adventure of ours.  
  
Still, a few of those military officers were nodding at my words, despite being from the Rangers. Their worlds _had_ been constantly attacked by the Dracs over the centuries, so I suppose that shouldn’t have been too much of a surprise.

“An important duty, but surely you have the time to come break bread with us?” Aldo replied easily, nodding slightly at my words. “The enemies of the Commonwealth are many, and strong, but with your Regiment here, I’m sure you can take at least one night to enjoy Skye’s warm welcome?”  
  
_The little weasel,_ I thought sourly. Aldo was no slouch in politicking – the _real_ politicking, rabble-rousing a crowd in person, acting like he was talking to an individual when his words were actually for everyone to hear. He’d phrased things like we were friends, inviting me to ‘break bread’, and implying that if I didn’t show, I would be snubbing not just him, but _all_ of Skye. He was offering to be friends, and I would either have to accept, or be the rude Lyran bastard refusing his generous offer.  
  
He’d made a mistake, though, I realized. Aldo was acting in the _Lyran_ style – the womanizing, the parties, the drinking, all of which were symbolic luxuries of the nobility and the rich – while his public arguments against Katrina emphasized how slothful the Lyran Commonwealth was, how lazy their defenses of Skye were. A hypocrite, like many nobles. I didn’t have to point that out, because most of the nobles in the crowd had already heard Aldo’s prior complaints.

Even better, Aldo was not solely a symbol of Skye’s nobility, but a personal patron of the 17th Skye Rangers, and other Skye units. If I could get them on my side, this whole thing might turn around… and as Frederick had demonstrated earlier today, there was nothing that’d get a military man’s attention faster than being told his perimeter had been breached.  
  
“I’ve been on Skye a single day, and already a Kuritan has tried to kill me,” I told Lestrade disdainfully.  
  
The noblemen in the crowd let out gasps and signs of surprise, but the military officers stared harder, their eyes locked on me. Perhaps a few had heard of Frederick’s earlier outburst, but it was clear that _Aldo_ had not, for he held his warm, friendly grin just a moment too long, and then dropped it suddenly in surprise, an expression of shock and outrage.  
  
“A Draconis assassin on _Skye itself_ ,” Aldo repeated, clenching a fist. “This is outrageous! What happened, did he get away? The 17th Skye will hunt the bastards down, I’m sure of it.”  
  
“No need,” I informed the man calmly, keeping my words simple and projecting my voice outwards with the ease of long experience. “The Drac is already dead.”  
  
“What happened?” someone in the crowd demanded, just as Aldo opened his mouth to say something. A gossip-monger, perhaps, or just a nobleman accustomed to being in charge and too impatient to wait. Either way, it was the perfect opportunity for me.  
  
“DEST assassin,” I told the nobleman, turning to look in his general direction and patting the hilt of my ceremonial saber. “He interrupted my sword practice, so I gutted him.”

The nobleman in question, a blond, almost perfectly groomed, looked shocked at my words. The rest of the crowd broke into whispers and mutters, both the nobility and the officers. Aldo had lost control of the crowd very quickly, and I could see a rising surge of red skin charging up his neck, and his clenched fist became genuinely tight, with almost white knuckles. I almost smiled at him, to rub it in, but that would ruin my stoic, stern soldier act.  
  
The real trick to rabble-rousing a crowd, as any good Commissar knows, is to never let the buggers have a chance to interrupt you. Sure, some dealt with interruptions via summary execution, which was an effective way of silencing any dissenters, but it had horrible long-term effects. I’d given this crowd some motivation, lit a fire to learn as much as they could, either for scandalous gossip or for military security reasons, and now all I needed to do was point them at an obstacle and let them loose.  
  
“If anyone wants to know more, I believe General Frederick Steiner has promised to do a full security sweep,” I said loudly, addressing the whole crowd before they could toss up another curveball. “I’m sure he’s eager to tell anyone _exactly_ what he’ll do to any Drac infiltrators he catches.”

Freddy-boy had promised no such thing, unless you counted promising to keel-haul whatever security had let the Drac through, but the crowd didn’t know that – and they didn’t care, as several of them hurried off, trying not to run in their elaborate court garments as they rushed to find Frederick and make sure that no such DEST assassins would get a chance to kill _them_. The military officers likewise left, albeit in a less visibly-panicked manner, no doubt to tell all of their fellow officers the news ASAP, before that security sweep caught their illicit card games, hidden moonshine stills, and dancing girls in the officer’s barracks.  
  
“Duke Lestrade,” I said, looking to the man. “I should go.”  
  
“Perhaps one day we’ll meet again, and you can take up me on that offer,” Aldo said, doing an admirable job of controlling his visible temper.  
  
“Perhaps,” I replied, before turning and striding away, leaving the short man stewing in my wake. _Not bloody likely_ , I thought to myself.

If I’d known then what kind of trouble Aldo Lestrade would bring me, I would have turned right around and strangled the traitorous bastard on the spot, and damn the consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested in this story, or just hanging out, you are welcome to join my Discord server. https://discord.gg/ywMZtJZztK


	3. Chapter 3

The day after the formal celebration at the palace, I needed a celebration of my own to recover. Luckily, the city of New Glasgow was highly recommended among the many aged, worn guidebooks that littered our barracks block, many of which boasted ‘new drinks from across the Star League!’

The reality was, naturally, far more disappointing. The capitol city of Skye had fallen far since the glory days of three hundred years before. Some of that was the technological decay that Katrina often bemoaned, but some was the simple inevitability of warfare, with Skye being the target of numerous raids over the years.

Yet the people of Skye I met on the streets had a certain… toughness to them. They weren’t quite enduring, duty-obsessed automatons like Kriegers, or devoutly wrathful Emperor-botherers like the Tallarn, but something more rugged. The average Skye native was stubborn and spiteful, I found, and if you told them to not to do something, they’d do it anyway – because how dare you tell them what to do.

They were almost amusingly contrarian people, and I never could get over how strange I found it all. I’d met my share of arguers and malcontents before, of course, but as a former Imperial Commissar, I couldn’t help but be amazed at the sheer guts some of these people had, to be so strongly opposed to the military that was literally keeping them safe from the enemy. Stupid, of course, but also gutsy.

With that in mind, I ditched my uniform and dressed down as casual as I could. I was just pulling on my overcoat when my adjutant George entered, took one look at what I was wearing, and gave me a disappointed look.

“Are you going to a bar, or a book club?” George asked, crossing his arms.

“I’m going out to a bar,” I replied, a touch annoyed as his imposition.

“Not looking like that and not without me, you’re not,” George replied, walking up and pulling my perfectly modest overcoat away.

“What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?” I asked, looking down at the shorter man, who was shrugging out of his own uniform jacket and grabbing a raggedy beat up jacket of inferior leather.

“You look like a nobleman out for a stroll with his lady wife,” George informed me, throwing the patched leather jacket at me. “You _want_ to look like a local slumming it, someone from the lower class that just got off-shift on payday and has some money burning a hole in his pocket.”

“That’s hardly respectable,” I said, confused. “And you didn’t say a word when I dressed like this on that world with the vanishing sea. What was it called?”

“Son Hoa,” George answered, still looking hard at me. “And you were the _distraction_ that time. Nobody wants to _look_ like nobility, except the actual nobility.”

“Isn’t that a sign of being well off?” I asked, thinking back to how people dressed on Tharkad, and ignoring the unfortunate revelation that I was just a distraction – it was far from the first time an attractive blonde had used me as such. “A sign that you’re someone important?”

“It’s a sign of arrogance,” George said. “Like you _think_ you’re more important than the other guy – which is a good way to get a knuckle sandwich. Here, put these on.”

A pair of thick canvas pants with grease stains hit me in the chest, and a thick belt with an absurdly large buckle followed. At least this finally explained why Kell Brothers dressed like slobs, despite being nobility on Arc-Royal and cousins to whatever Luvon was now Archduke of Donegal, after Arthur’s death.

George left for a few minutes to let me change, and when he returned, he was wearing similarly worn clothing; a sleeveless leather vest with biker patches over a long-sleeved tan shirt, brown leather pants, and a snakeskin belt. He looked like a mercenary, honestly.

“Why do you get to look like a mercenary, while I look like a welder?” I demanded, looking over both of our outfits.

“Because you’re taller,” George said, which didn’t explain anything.

* * *

The night started out pleasantly, from what I remember.

The first couple bars we went to weren’t exactly to my style, and I complained quietly to George about his choices, but he held firm against my annoyance. That’s the problem with adjutants, you see; the better they are at doing their job, the more they think they can get away with – and the worst part is they’re generally right.

The main problem I had with the first few bars is that they were bad bars. It wasn’t that they were dive bars, because I’m quite experienced with all manner of dive bars, and they can be great fun. The best gambling doesn’t happen at casinos, and the best booze – for a certain understanding of ‘good enough’, but also ‘cheap enough’ – wasn’t at the tourist traps. The problem was, they weren’t even good dive bars.

Each bar was full of exhausted factory-workers and miners, just trying to get a drink before they collapsed for the night. Not exactly the kind of company that a soldier likes to keep – too tired to have a good conversation, too cheap to get the good beer, too stationary to have exotic stories, too poor to be worth gambling against, and too damn murderous if you tried to start a good bar fight.

In some ways, I pitied the unlucky bastards. For all the luxuries they had compared to the average hive-city dweller, they were essentially stuck in the same lot in life – wageslaves with no upward mobility, save the military. Normally, I’d have tried the old ‘Hero of the Commonwealth’ routine on them, but on Skye, I didn’t want to take the chance.

The fourth bar was technically better, but George still hustled us out of it as quickly as he could. I went along without a single protest, because this bar was as offensively Free Skye as possible, and just walking in without certain patches on our jackets or known faces had caused a lot of glares and hands subtly moving towards belts and under coats.

We struck gold at the fifth bar, which was exactly the right mix of grizzled mercenaries, off-duty soldiers, and easily impressed locals who weren’t exhausted. The lights weren’t too low, and the bar itself was an enormous cut of beautiful redwood, polished to a shine.

George went up to order us two Timbiqui Darks, while I found a good table to sit at. A very important job, because you never knew who might walk up behind you if you sat at the bar, even with the traditional mirror. It also saved me from having to pay. The corner booths are a bit oversold, in my experience – they single you out, and limit your options for retreat into the obvious. Better to have a booth along the wall, but in the middle, so you have more ways to run.

I was waiting for the first star-struck fans to approach, and strangely enough, none were, when George returned with the beer. Maybe being dressed like a welder had some advantages, I conceded. My attempts to blend in with the locals back home had always been more a matter of reducing how much attention I got, and I’d never really managed to fully avoid it. Of course, I was also far more famous then.

We didn’t talk much, just savoring the taste of our beers for the first few minutes. I’m sure George was thinking about his distant wife and daughter, or perhaps trying to figure out how to keep my quarters secure from unwanted entrants, or something else along those same dutiful and solid lines.

Personally, I was having a hard time staving off an attack of morose melancholy. George was a friend, but he was no Katrina, much less Morgan or Patrick, and _certainly_ not on the level of my old friends. I still woke up some days, wondering if Zyvan was up for another regicide game, or thinking about touring the Valhallan barracks for a spot-inspection to keep morale up. Worse still were the days when I caught myself looking twice at every flash of blonde hair, or sniffing for a familiar odor.

I was getting bored, I realized, with a bit of a hesitant fear.

Boredom was a nightmare for someone like me. Boredom meant complacency, and complacency meant getting comfortable, and getting comfortable meant I was about to be blindsided by something that I _should_ have kept on top of.

It was only now, several weeks of Jumpship travel away, in a wonderfully dingy bar on Skye, that I could admit to myself that maybe Katrina hadn’t been a bad friend to make. Entirely aside from the luxuries that being a friend of the Archon afforded me, that is. Katrina was… so _driven_. She had a million priorities, and was masterful at scheduling them just right, and that meant that she always had orders to give me.

Perhaps it was all those years of serving as a political officer, or the few negatives experiences where I’d been unwillingly forced into a commanding position over some ragtag band of miscreants, but I think I just wasn’t suited for command. An advisory role, certainly, because then my failures wouldn’t doom entire units to horrific deaths.

But without Katrina here to grab me by the scruff of my collar and kick me in the ass towards some decadent fop in need of a phony friend and a thorough corruption investigation, I was becoming… aimless. I suppose I was still in charge of training my Company of Mechwarriors, but that was routine, and I never needed to think hard to pull out some trick from my long years to surprise them in the simulators and make them think twice.

“I suppose you should contact General Steiner about that briefing,” I mentioned to George, after finishing most of my brew. “Before he decides to hunt me down.”

“Very good, sir,” George replied, glancing over at a group of newcomers that had just walked into the bar. “You’ll be his new best friend before you know it.”

I couldn’t help but let out a laugh at that. I didn’t think that Freddy boy would ever come to like me, but dropping a security weakness on his lap in our first meeting _definitely_ hadn’t helped.

My laugh was a little too loud, however, and it attracted the attention of some of the newcomers. A couple of the thugs looked, but lost interest and looked away. The weedy looking man in the middle of the cluster had a vaguely familiar face, however, and he looked at me once, then twice, and promptly let out a terrified scream.

“It’s them! They're after me! Shoot them, you morons!” the man yelled, all in a rush, shoving one of his larger companions in my direction and bolting right back out the door at a dead sprint.

To be honest, I had absolutely no idea who the weedy looking man was. But his companions all followed his orders instantly, heads snapping towards and hands reaching underneath jackets to grab weapons, so the man’s identity quickly became the last priority on my list.

“Cover!” George yelled, charging out of the booth in complete defiance of his words. I tried to flip the booth’s table over, but it was bolted to the wall, and all I succeeded in was knocking our beers off. A number of the bar’s military and mercenary patrons were already diving for their own cover, but the ring of shattering glass woke up the civilians, and they started to scream and duck.

I dove out of the booth as the first shot roared over my head – some kind of conventional pistol, with a large caliber – and came out of my roll by smacking my head right into the nearby table that George had already overturned for cover.

By the time I’d shaken my head and drawn my laser pistol, the well-populated bar was full of gunshots and streaks of light, and I could barely tell who was shooting who. It seemed that half of the mercenaries had been packing heat, and some of the off-duty military, and they didn’t appreciate gunshots in their bar any more than I did.

Under all that return fire, I expected the street thugs to be retreating back out the door, but instead they were almost berserk – and they were charging towards _me!_

My pistol snapped up almost instantly, and I placed a shot at one of the thug’s upper-chest. The unfortunate man ducked at the wrong time, and instead of hitting his jacket, it speared him right through the throat, dropping him.

There couldn’t have been more than six or seven of the men, but they were almost all built for the ugly gang brawls that you found in inner cities like this; tall, strong, short hair or shaven heads, and packing body armor under their jackets, as I learned by watching one thug shrug off a pistol shot to the chest. A few of them were bleeding from some shots, but not a one of them were slowing down.

With enemies coming from the direction of the door, I immediately started scooting towards the bar, which had a second door to the stockroom that I'd subconsciously taken note of earlier, firing a few snapshots to keep the thugs from getting a clean shot at us.

I bumped into George as I ran from behind our table, and I guess he took that as a sign to reposition, rather than an accident, because he followed right behind me, his own compact laser pistol sending shots at the intruders.

There was a howl behind me, and I ran even faster. Whenever someone’s angry enough to scream during a firefight instead of just shooting you, it’s generally a sign that they want to tear you to pieces with their bare hands, so it’s best to get some distance as fast as you can.

I cleared the bar in a ungainly leaping dive, but smashed a couple of glasses aside in the process, and George followed at a much more controlled slide over the top, still firing as he went. The benefits of no recoil on laser weapons, I guess. The bartender didn’t look happy to see me diving over the top of his bar, but then, I was hardly the only person running for solid, durable cover, and there were a few mercenaries already with him. A few shots smacked into the bar, and the fact that they stopped dead proved that this was a smart decision.

A few moments later, the gunshots and laserblasts started to trail off, and when I poked my head up, the last thug was down, a half-dozen holes punched straight through his chest. He’d managed to clear half the room, but the bodies of his fellows trailed out behind him, along with a string of punctured tables, shattered glasses, and stunned civilians.

“Sound off, who’s not dead?” one of the mercenaries called out, and a ragged chorus replied with groans, grunts, and swear words. Some of the civilians were starting to look up from their positions on the ground, and at least one woman was crying from a stray bullet.

George stood up from behind the bar slowly, laser pistol still raised cautiously, and moved out to inspect the bodies. I wasn’t going to expose myself so quickly – what if one of them was only playing dead, or there was another gunman outside the entrance, waiting? – so I quickly made myself busy.

“I apologize for knocking over the beer,” I said to the short, aged bartender, as I helped him back to his feet.

“Bah, don’t worry about it,” the bartender snarled, looking over the wreckage, and shaking his head fiercely. “Damn bastards… who’s stupid enough to shoot up my bar? It’ll be all week cleaning this shite up!”

“Not the faintest clue,” I replied, looking carefully around the room, perfectly ready to drop back behind cover, just in case.

“Well, get the fuck out then!” the bartender snapped, smacking me on the side with a knotty, gnarled cane of some kind. “You’re the one they were pointing at, aye? Get gone, before more come back!”

The old bartender’s shoving barely pushed me a step or two, but the mercenaries and military men were starting to look at me with squinty eyes, and I quickly hopped back over the bar and quick-walked to George.

“Time to go!” I said quickly to him, as he finished rifling through the pockets of one of the dead goons.

George looked up, made a single glance around the room at the glaring bartender and unhappy mercenaries, and nodded sharply. We hustled out of the bar as quickly as possible.

The cold air of a Skye night pierced the lingering adrenaline, and I decided that I’d had enough excitement for the night. Walking around exposed after an attempted hit - even an accidental one - was hardly my idea of a good time. The local police were almost certainly on their way, and it was possible that the weedy, familiar-looking man from before had summoned reinforcements.

“Back to base?” George asked, accurately reading my nervous glances.

“As fast as possible,” I replied.

* * *

About an hour after all the excitement in New Glasgow, I was safely ensconced in my office back at Fort McHenry, with a nice mug of imported Capellan tea.

George sat at the nearby side-desk, ostensibly filing paperwork on his terminal and inspecting his laser pistol, though I couldn’t help but notice that the weapon’s battery-cell never left the housing, and it was always close at hand.

“Jimmy McClellan,” George declared after some time, turning the monitor of his terminal to face me.

“Who?” I asked, blinking at the words, and looking at the mugshot of a clean-shaven man on the screen, before realization hit me. “One of the thugs.”

“And noted Free Skye street tough,” George told me, his lips pressed in a grim line. “He’s had a half dozen arrests for assault, two for rioting, three instances of carrying a concealed weapon against his parole, and two dozen more suspected crimes that the New Glasgow police could never pin on him, including three murders.”

“And this information’s just floating out there on the planetary net, publicly?” I asked, giving my adjutant a look.

“I’ve got a few friends on-planet,” George said, not rising to the bait.

“Did your friends happen to know anything about the man who was with him?” I asked. I’d known that George was involved with some kind of clandestine organization, but seeing as it was the same group that sheltered me during the mess on Poulsbo, and which Katrina Steiner apparently trusted, I didn’t think it was much worth investigating – that kind of thing let to uncomfortable questions being asked, and even more uncomfortable weapons being pointed.

“They’re quite familiar with Jimmy, but they didn’t know anything about him playing bodyguard,” George replied, shaking his head. “Not his usual kind of deal. Too much of a blunt instrument. He’s more likely to kill a man than keep him safe.”

“Which just makes the other man even more interesting,” I remarked. “Particularly since he didn’t seem to be a thug himself. I could have sworn I’d met him before; he seemed faintly familiar. Did you think so?”

“Possible,” George admitted. “Something from Tharkad, or further back?”

“Further, I think,” I said, thinking back. “I definitely haven’t seen him in several years, or I’d have remembered his name… perhaps…”

I made a vague gesture to my hair, as if I was wearing a wig of long flowing locks, and George nodded immediately. It was the same gesture that we all made whenever we referred to the old pirate days, when Katrina had played herself up as the megalomaniacal Red Corsair, and had dyed her bright blonde hair into a scarlet red to better fit the role.

“Certainly possible,” he answered, also neglecting to say the name aloud, just in case we’d missed a listening device. “I’ll check.”

“Good man,” I said approvingly, before returning to my own paperwork. As an officer, I’d technically been the officer in charge at the scene, and I wanted to have my report on the shootout on Lieutenant-General Ashberry’s desk _before_ the New Glasgow Police decided to wave a warrant under his nose and demand to take me into custody.

It was important that I lined up the facts of the matter so as to prevent anyone from reading suspicious motivations in our brief sojourn beyond the fort’s walls. Yes, we didn’t feel that the first few bars were appropriate to hang out in. No, we did not have any prior knowledge that anyone wished us dead, or have any idea why the shooting had started.

Honestly, it was just a few dead street thugs. There were thousands of their profession roaming the streets, and no one was going to miss them much. I personally wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble of reporting their deaths, but I knew that the bartender was certainly going to report me as a potential suspect, so I had to beat him to the punch.

After a few minutes and a quick refill of my tea, George turned his terminal back around to face me again. The face of the man from before was on it.

“Good work,” I said, a bit surprised at how fast he’d done it. “Who is he?”

“Terrence Moore,” George said, pulling up the man’s file. “Known pirate, from the Black Brotherhood.”

“Which one was that?” I asked, the name also sounding faintly familiar, but without any real details coming to mind.

“Good question,” George chuckled. “He was a Jumpship captain that worked for _three_ separate groups all calling themselves the Black Brotherhood. Noted for running into the Red Corsair in the All Dawn system six years ago, in 3005. He disappeared after that.

“Hm,” I hummed, looking over the picture. “An old friend, then… of a sort.”

“Of a sort,” George agreed.

“So what was he doing all the way in here?” I wondered aloud. “If I were a retiring pirate, I’d hardly want to move to _Skye_ of all places…”

“Can’t figure that part out,” George admitted. “But it’s interesting.”

“Certainly is,” I agreed.

Jumpship captains in pirate bands were an interesting position – they held huge power with control of a pirate’s mobility, yet they were often treated as far less important than the Mechwarriors or tankers that they carried for raids

A bad pirate Jumpship might replace it’s captain every few months as a new opportunist shot the old one for being too pushy or too weak… yet according to the LIC file that George had pulled up, Terrence Moore had been in the game for at least three decades. He’d managed to thread the needle between both dangerous positions to survive, even thrive, in multiple different pirate bands.

I could have admired that, if it wasn’t for the fact that he’d ordered his goons to kill me. Instead, it just made me even more curious. What was he doing on Skye, why had he tried to kill me?

The mystery ticked away in my head for the rest of the night, long after I dismissed George and headed to sleep. As I lay in bed, a final thought struck me – at least I wasn’t bored any more.  
  
  


  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested in this story, or just hanging out, you are welcome to join my Discord server. https://discord.gg/ywMZtJZztK


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